


The Last of Us

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Background Character Death, End of War, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one remembered what had been the last straw, but by the end, it didn't matter anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last of Us

What was the last straw? The final blow?  
  
No one remembered anymore. Bluestreak wasn't certain and Prime sure as frag didn't know either.  
  
Whatever it had been, it left Earth a wasteland and sent the remains of Cybertron plummeting into a black hole, all on it doomed to perish.  
  
At least Shockwave was no longer around to torment the innocent. Not that it mattered. The twisted scientist had already done the worst damage possible.  
  
Right now, Bluestreak would take the silence over the constant beep of machines and the whump-hiss of artificial pumps. The sounds only reminded him of the inevitable, of the long, dark road all Cybertronians had found themselves on.  
  
The hand in his was cold and still. Weeks ago, it would twitch in restless stasis. The plating had ceased humming with life, drawing all heat back to the core. The frame functioned thanks to machines and the faintest flicker of a spark. That tiny, tiny glint was all that remained of Jazz.  
  
Bluestreak dipped his helm, pressing his mouth to the cold metal. Could he breathe life back into his mate like in the human's stories? If he prayed long and hard enough, would Primus finally hear his plea? Would he answer Bluestreak as he hadn't in Praxus?  
  
Would he beg forgiveness?  
  
Bluestreak's ventilations rattled. His own maintenance was rather shoddy at this point. Everyone's was.  
  
Memories made the silent vigil that much harder. This frame should not be quiet and still. Jazz should be laughing and dancing and reminding them all what it meant to live.  
  
What were they fighting for anymore? Stepping over the grey frames of friend and foe alike, fueled by grief and rage and a yawning emptiness death could never fill.  
  
Bluestreak's lips traced Jazz's knuckle-joints, ex-vent fogging the dull metal. He should have spoken sooner, should have worked a confession into that endless litany of words. Perhaps then they would have had more time.  
  
But never enough.  
  
The door opened behind him.  
  
“Blue?” A hand landed on his shoulder – First Aid. Ratchet was gone. Hoist and Grapple, too. Wheeljack. Hook and Scrapper even. All the medics save First Aid. “It's time.”  
  
He cycled a ventilation and pressed a final kiss to Jazz's hand. The metal felt even colder to his lip-plating. He pressed Jazz's hand to the berth and rose to his pedes, grabbing his blaster from a nearby table, one laden down with mismated parts, scavenged tools, and the evidence of a long, lonely war.  
  
“You're not going to stay?” Aid asked before Bluestreak could get out the door.  
  
He paused. “Jazz is already gone,” Bluestreak replied and he didn't recognize the grating quality of his own voice. “He's just waiting for the rest of us to join him.”  
  
Once upon a time, First Aid might have argued. He would have smile and offered optimism and comfort, but the scars on his spark had broken him as surely as they had altered Bluestreak.  
  
“Yes,” First Aid said, moving to the main control panel of the machines sustaining the vital functions of Jazz's frame. “Prime is prepping for the final assault.”  
  
“In more ways than one.” Bluestreak checked his blaster, which registered half a charge. Just enough, he supposed. “You should have gone with the humans, Aid.”  
  
One by one, the steady beeping ended. The whump-whoosh of the ventilations went silent. The tick-tick-tick of a struggling frame was all the noise left behind.  
  
“I'm where I belong,” First Aid said.  
  
With the dead and dying, Bluestreak thought. How fitting.  
  
“I'll see you in the Well,” Bluestreak said and palmed the door open, stepping into the half-lit corridor, shadows clinging to every corner. “Or maybe the Pit. Wherever Primus sends me first.”  
  
The door closed shut behind him, saving him from hearing Jazz's last spark-flicker, though it didn't prevent him from feeling it.  
  
 _I'll be there soon_ , Bluestreak promised as he stepped out of the ruined maw that used to be the Ark's entrance. He joined a handful of survivors for the final clash between Autobot and Decepticon. One side would walk away, or neither would. That was the choice that had been made.  
  
 _Wait for me._  
  


***

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: I'm going to call this one complete though I'm fighting off the ravenous plot-bunnies as we speak. I may add more little ficlets to it in the future, but for now, yeah, we'll call this complete.


End file.
